Wednesday, April 27, 2011

The most surprising thing about that morning was that I woke up in the top bunk. I have no memory of returning to the tree house, climbing the precariously steep steps, or tackling the bamboo ladder that led me into bed, though a throbbing pain in my left knee suggested that at least one of those things didn’t happen without incident.

Cool air swirled in through the glassless windows; it couldn’t have been much past ten. When did we leave the street party? At what point had I lost my assistant, Zoe, to a car full of sexy Lebanese men? Where were my pants?

Oh, there. The most surprising thing about that morning was decidedly not that I woke up in the top bunk.

The most surprising thing was that my skinny jeans were slung over the guard rail, one inside-out leg dipping down towards the floor, the other tucked underneath my hip. If you find no miracle in the fact that I managed to remove my pants that previous night, then consider the fact that my hiking boots were still tied tightly onto my feet.

Consider that.

And now you know how surprised I was.

I sat up in bed, top of my head brushing against the bamboo ceiling and dangled my long, naked legs over the edge, kicking back and forth like a kid in lead shoes.

Craig the sound guy was sprawled naked across the rug with his hairy chest to the sky, his tongue lolling out of his mouth and a puddle of drool spreading across the psychedelic Central American weave, like some satire of a dog.

Pantsless, and I mean that in both the American and the British sense of the word, I trapped my lap beneath the corner of the bed sheet, eyeing Craig the sound guy suspiciously.

The edge of the jungle came to me while I rested immobile at the base of the temple. I glided along like a boat on the water, unseen forces pushing irresistibly. In the thick of it once more, the sky above me flirted from behind towering palm tree fans. She blushed fuchsia whenever my eyes connected with her otherwise violet skin.

The forest sucked me along and drew all the curtains so there was no longer any seeing out, or in. Each movement left me invisible to the place I’d inhabited only a moment ago. My existence was erased and rewritten every moment.

Only trees and butterflies and thick-lipped amphibians with glass black eyes had ever seen this virgin forest. I floated along like a ghost in a museum; an uninvited and inconsequential tourist.

The flavor of the insistently earthy tea repeated once more against the back of my tongue and I tried to swallow it again. On its way down, it had tasted like earth; on its way back up, it was all fire. I hiccupped searing flames.

All around me, trees reached out to slide long, emaciated fingers against my skin, leaving a goose bump freeze in their wake. But there was no hostility in the grasp of the branches. The jungle just wanted to caress me as I glided through it. It couldn’t keep its fronds off me.

I knelt in front of a snake. Turning her empty eyes to face me directly, she stopped and waited. There was no way to read her. The eyes are not the windows to the snake’s soul; they are only mirrors that you fall into in one last mistake.

My throat burned and my skin itched.

“You know where I need to go,” I accused her and she stuck out her tongue. I knew, even as she slipped once more beneath the undergrowth that the words that were babbling out of my mouth had been confused by more than just foul tasting tea. I was stoned out of my mind on mushrooms. I recognized the symptoms now.

There had been something familiar in that flavor, indeed something dangerous: a cytotoxic undertone in the bouquet of rotting forest and earthworm medicine.

My stomach rushed up against my throat without warning but there would be no relief from the journey now. I had no choice but to see it through to the end. When I recovered at last, I found myself moving again. How far had I come? How long until night? My feet did not belong to me.

Everything went dim as I walked for what might have been many hours. My mind didn’t drift as it usually does, telling me stories about my journey; about where I might be going and what I might find when I got there. No, things got quiet inside me. Hushed like dying.

A scream brought me back. My eyes swiveled up to the source of the noise: a tiny man with a nose like a water balloon and rainbow painted genitals. He pulled his lips back at me so I could get a better look at his teeth and rocked back and forth, tiny cherry red penis proudly displayed before me.

Not a man, mushroom-self, a monkey.

If he’s a monkey, why is he talking?

“If you know you’re on drugs, why do you think this is real?”

“Stop talking.”

I did, I froze, mouth open in a perfect circle. My tongue scrapped against the roof of my mouth and crumbled away like sand in the wind. Holes in me.

Shit.

Monkey.

“Your dick is red.”

He grinned, canines long like swords.

“You have blue balls.”

He squatted down to hide them.

“Get back in the fucking trees. You don’t belong here on the ground," I shouted with more anger than I knew I had. But it was more for myself, for telling this monkey how to live his life. “Swarthy man monkey.”

He stepped aside at last, but there was nothing behind him except impenetrable forest. I could not move forward.

Above me, the palms began to fold in on themselves like feathers, one by one tucked back neat in place along bent wings. But this wasn’t forest; these were wings and he was reaching out for me with them, to tuck me in safe against his cold body. Cold-blooded bird. He rested his spear-straight beak against my neck, to hug me tighter.

The last thing I remember was the eye of the pterodactyl, black like a hole in my childhood.

When I woke up in my hotel room Wednesday morning, Tuesday had never happened, as far as I could tell. I’d lost the day, somewhere out there in the forest of Indonesia, somewhere in the arms of a dream.

Wednesday, April 6, 2011

Transporting gasoline to island nations is not at all practical. For one thing, gas isn't free. An island has to purchase it for a larger, richer, more powerful nation which can bully the island into paying more than is reasonable for a liter of fuel. Then the island has to get the gas over to it, which creates more costs and poses a serious risk to the environment. For some nations, such as Palau, the environment underwater is just about all they've got going for them, so protecting the reef and the amazing biodiversity of the ocean is of prime concern.

I'm so pleased to be able to report that island nations such as this one have invested in alternative fuels and have come up with some innovative approaches that are sure to please the environmentalists, boost the economy and save the whales.

About Me

Travel writer and international woman of adventure, Crystal Beran can rarely be found where she says she'll be. She is currently searching the world for stories to feverishly record back at her secret lair. These quests for new material take Crystal to surprising locations far from the comforts of the world she has known, and once there she refuses to remain with her tour group. One day, with the funds she generates as a writing superpower, she'll live in three villas and on a boat. Presently, Crystal and her cat mostly inhabit the planet Earth. That's as specific as they can be right now.